Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

“The parking lot? Here?”

“Right here.”

She said, “I’m coming down.”

Eric stood next to Petra’s Accord, half-concealed in the shadows. Arms at his side, looking in her direction, not moving. He had on a black nylon windbreaker, half-zipped over a white T-shirt, pipestem black jeans. Those black, crepe-soled shoes he liked for stakeouts.

He looked even thinner than usual. Pale and hollow-cheeked, eyes so dark and deep set they receded into the evening. Dark hair cropped even shorter- back to the military cut.

A middle-sized, skinny guy with the pallor of a seminary student. No attempt to posture, but still the James Dean thing amped big-time, filling Petra’s head.

How could she ever have thought him anything but sexy?

She hurried to him and they embraced. He pulled away first, touched her face. Buried his face in her hair, held her tight- the pressure of a needy child.

She said, “You okay?”

“Now, I am.”

“Why didn’t you come upstairs?”

“Technically, I’m not here.”

She took his face in her hands, kissed his eyelids, held him at arm’s length.

“Where are you supposed to be?”

“Jerusalem.”

“What, you went AWOL?”

“Technically.”

“Meaning?”

“The Israelis took a break because they’ve got business to take care of in Jenin. A chance came up to hitch a ride on a plane.”

“A plane.”

His smile was fleeting, barely perceptible. “You know. With wings.”

“How long can you stay?”

“I need to leave tomorrow P.M.”

“One night,” said Petra.

“Is that okay?”

“Of course.” She kissed his nose. “You have a car?”

He shook his head. “Took a taxi.”

They got into the Accord. Petra started up the engine and noticed the dark smudges under his eyes. “How long have you been in transit?”

“Twenty-three hours.”

“Some hitch.”

“Part of it was a hitch. I flew commercial from Heathrow. Old ladies in wheelchairs were getting frisked while guys who look like Usama’s favorite swimming sperm walked right through. You hungry?”

Petra wanted to play house but no food in the apartment meant dinner out.

They went to an Italian place on Third near La Brea, an old-fashioned chianti-bottles-dangling-from-the ceiling taverna, ordered veal marsala and spaghetti with clams and slices of spumoni for dessert. No wine; Eric never drank.

She asked him about Jerusalem.

He said, “I was there years ago, back during Riyadh. I thought it was beautiful then. It’s more complicated now. Assholes wearing bomb-packs kind of ruin the ambience.”

He coiled pasta on his fork, paused midair. “I met a guy who knows you. Superintendent Sharavi.”

“Daniel,” said Petra. “We worked a case together. He and Milo and me.”

“That’s what he said.” Eric put the fork down, took her hand in his, played with her fingers.

“You really have to go back tomorrow?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Through London?”

He hesitated. The instinctive secrecy. “I’m booked on Jet Blue out of Long Beach to New York.”

“One night,” she said.

“I wanted to see you.”

Back in Petra’s apartment, they sat on the couch, listened to a Diana Krall CD, and made out.

Eric started off gently, the way he had since their first few encounters. Usually it turned Petra on- the slow simmer, all the erotic ballet. Tonight she was impatient, but she slowed herself down. Then she didn’t. Stripping him down to pale, bony nakedness, then ripping off her own clothes so hastily she nearly tripped on a pants leg.

Cool move, Detective Klutz.

Eric hadn’t noticed. His eyes were closed and his flat chest heaved. In the flesh, he looked younger. Vulnerable.

She touched him and he opened his eyes, took hold of her shoulders, trailed his hands down her hips and cupped her ass. Lifted her adroitly and settled her on him. Taking his own initiative: moving her up and down, slowly, then faster. Kissing her nipples, biting down gently. Throwing his head back and letting out a long, deep-in-the throat sigh. Clenching his face as he held back.

She said, “Do it, baby.” But he kept fighting it. So she sped up, ground against him. And when she came, panting and gasping, her hair over her face, he was bucking up at her and shouting “God!”

Later, in bed, snuggled under the covers, she pinched his butt and said, “Didn’t know you were religious.”

“Not the religion I was raised with.”

His dad was a minister. Reverend Bob Stahl, a kind and gentle man, determined to believe the best about people. Eric’s mom, Mary, was no less positive. Petra had come to know both of them in the E.R. waiting room. Petra benefiting from the disapproving glances the Stahls shot at the bimbo’s skimpy clothing.

Bonding some more when the bleeding crisis resolved and Eric was moved to a private room, still unconscious. The three of them sitting by Eric’s bed as he slept and healed. When Petra offered to leave to give them privacy, they insisted she stay.

Once, just before Eric woke up, Mary Stahl hugged Petra and told her, “You’re just the kind of girl I wish he’d bring home.”

If you only knew.

Eric began rubbing the twin soft spots just inside her shoulder blades. The places she’d told him always got sore.

“Oh, man,” she said. “I’m not sure I’m gonna let you out of here tomorrow.”

“You tie me up,” he said. “It would be an excuse.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She tried to get him talking about work.

He said, “You don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

He rolled over, stared at the ceiling.

“What?” she said.

“I look at the Israelis’ situation and it worries me. They’re up against September eleven every day, but they can’t do what they need to do. World opinion, diplomacy, all that good stuff.”

His mouth snapped shut and he flung his arm over his eyes. Petra was sure he was going to clam up. Instead, he said, “Politics can be poison. Too much politics and you can’t protect yourself.”

Eric, the most taciturn of men, sometimes mumbled in his sleep. But what woke Petra in the middle of the night was her own, internal voice- some kind of warning. She turned, stared at his face, saw calm. The faint, contented smile of a well-nurtured kid.

The second time she awoke it was just after noon and Eric was up and showering. By twelve-thirty Petra was cooking eggs. They ate and read the paper- Lord, wasn’t this domestic.

At one-thirty, Eric kissed her and headed for the door.

“I’ll drive you,” she said.

“I called a cab.”

He’d arrived with no luggage, was leaving the same way. Wearing pressed blue jeans and a dark blue button-down shirt, the same black windbreaker, the same crepe-soled shoes. Fresh duds selected from the clothing he’d left in her guest closet.

Zipping halfway across the world with nothing but a wallet. Like it was a jaunt to the market.

Here and back. To see her.

She said, “Cancel the taxi. I’m taking you.”

She hung with him in the cozy, turquoise, modern coffee shop above the Jet Blue terminal until a young man stuck his head in and announced the flight’s imminent departure.

Eric got up, shrugged, looked embarrassed. Petra gave him the most intense hug she could muster. One more kiss and he was gone. She left the terminal with aching eyes.

Traffic on the 405 was ominous and she didn’t arrive at the Hollywood station until six twenty-five P.M. Two D’s were at their desks- Kaplan and Salas- and greeted her with nods.

No messages from Mac Dilbeck or anyone else on the Paradiso case. She headed for a free computer and tried some national databases for missing kids that she’d already contacted, not really expecting anything. Not getting anything.